Quest for Survival
by Exatreides
Summary: As the soviets crush the allied armies. A lone man fights for his life.
1. Running Riot.

Steven couldn't believe his eyes. Missiles had just impacted the skyscraper in the distance. He couldn't tell from here but it appeared to be the empire state building, but he couldn't tell anymore. A massive red fireball had engulfed the building from about halfway up. He kept running. He knew soviet forces were where moving in this direction. He could hear there automatic weapons firing , and the screams of those hit by them. He kept running he could see from the windows that there had been massive looting. There where who knows how many thousands of people in front of him, and behind him. Suddenly the mob stopped in front of him and he nearly trampled a young boy. Then everyone was running back at him. He took off with the mob not wanting to be crushed. He knew in his mind that he was only rushing towards hundreds of soviets with high powered assault riffles.  
  
he allowed himself a look behind him. The boy he had nearly trampled was being crushed under the mob of people. 'no use trying to save him' he thought to himself. He knew that the boy was already dead. Crushed by the mob like frenzy of thousands of people. The automatic weapons fire was growing in numbers and decibels. He kept running towards it though being dragged along with the mob. There was a some confusion among the mob now. Some were trying to go the other way to stop the soon approaching hail of gunfire, only to be knocked down and trampled. Screams erupted a few hundred feet behind him, hundreds of screams, and a loud whoosh as if a sudden gust of wind had just swept in. Steven had worked his way to the sidewalk trying to find a way into a store or window. He could see over the heads of some of the smaller people. At least 50 soviet soldiers were firing at the mob. The soldiers were pushing in at the mob firing.  
  
Steven noticed a broken window in a store up a head. The bullets were getting closer now. A occasional one wiped by his head. only a few lines of people remained in front of him. They were being cut to pieces by the automatic fire. The store was only a few feet away. If only he could survive that long. The teenage girl in front of him necks exploded in a geyser of blood covering him in a red coat.  
  
He jumped into the window. Cutting his left arm on the way. The landing knocked the wind out of him. The screams were intensifying now. The whoosh was almost deafening. He willed himself to move, crawling behind a bar. He took a look at his arm. Blood was pouring out of it. He knew he had been shot, He had to stop the blood before it killed him. The gunfire was coming from right out side the window, and there were voices screaming and laughing. He allowed himself a look through the window Russians were in brown uniform firing what looked like AK-47s.  
  
Everything started going blurry, he knew he needed to stop the bleeding quickly. He looked around him. He was lucky enough to spot a dish rag. It looked dirty, but he had no other choice, he held it against his arm to stop the bleeding. The voices outside were distorted black dots filled his vision. He pressed the rag harder against his arm. The blackness consumed him as he lost consensus 


	2. Ice Picks, And Alcoho

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter 2~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He awoke hours later. The fact of waking up surprised him. He was almost sure the blood loss would kill him. It hurt to move his arm. He looked around him. He had jumped into a bar. The owner had left in a rush the cash register was still open. The cash was gone. . He grabbed the top of the bar and pulled himself up.  
  
Fire outside the window caught his eye. Fires were burning in the buildings across the street. He couldn't see how many where dead on the street, he had no desire to. He didn't have any medical training but he knew he had to clean the wound. He slowly limped towards the bathroom in the back. Noticing a smeary blood trail to the bathroom. Opening the door he found the owner of the blood. the victim was a middle-aged bald man. He had what looked like a ice pick shoved through his head. he leaned against a corner in his own pool of blood. Some flies were buzzing around his head suggesting he had been there for a few hours. The strong smell of feices almost forced Steven back into the bar. He had to swat a few fly's away from his arm. The wound was about 4 inches and about a quarter of a inch deep. and knew that he had to clean it before it became infected.  
  
'Dam soviets took out the water mains' He thought as he tried the water. What was he going to do? If his arm got infected chances are he would have to lose it. Then the thought hit him.' What do you clean wounds out with? alcohol. where are you? a bar!' He mentally slapped himself for not thinking of it earlier. He hobbled back over to the bar. Most of the bottles had been taken. Only a one was left on the wall. A bottle of what looked like vodka. He grabbed it with his right arm and unscrewed the cap. He knew this would hurt. So he took a couple of swigs to try to null the pain. Clenching his teeth he poured the vodka over the wound. The pain was almost blinding, as if his arm had just been lit on fire. In the back of his mind he knew he had to do this, But he also slapped himself for not taking another swig. The Pain soon subsided, He checked the affect on his arm, Beside turning a shade of pink the wound still looked the same. He noticed something across the bar.  
  
He knew he couldn't stay in the bar for long. Sooner or later someone would come in. Maybe soviets, Maybe the purp who used the ice pick to check to see check his victim. Either way he knew he had to find himself some protection. He looked around the bar. Most bartenders kept a gun behind the bar. Or at least a baseball bat or pipe. He found one under the cash register. He didn't know much about guns, but he knew it was a revolver, A old big revolver. He had seen the movies, He tried to open the gun to check the ammo. He pressed against the side for a few seconds before realizing he was pressing the wrong way. The gun had 5 shots in left. He found a box of ammo beside the gun and shoved as many shells as he could into his jeans. He had never killed anyone before. Hell he had never held a gun. Holding it filled him with a feeling of power.  
  
His parents had censored him up until he was 14. That's when his dad had been offered the job in New York. That's when his world has changed. He was suddenly exposed to hundreds of new things his parents had censored him from. He became a Goth almost overnight. He wanted to see what he had been censored from, and they seemed like a good group to join to see the truths of the world. His parents hadn't been happy. They felt he had became a satin worshiping punk. His response was just to leave home for awhile. He left for over a month. His parents were so happy he had returned. The issue about Satin worshiping was never brought up again. If so he would have denied it. He didn't worship Satan or demons. He just liked the Idea of being a Goth. The dark side of human nature interested him. He took another swig of the vodka as he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same as yesterday, yet different. His 5'8 frame looked dirty and tired. His black hair was completely covered in dust. His left arm had been shot. Somehow his eyebrow ring had been lost. He felt tried. More than that he was hungry. There was nothing to eat in this bar. No penults, no crackers nothing. He set off towards the door. Shoving the gun in his belt after checking the safety. With every step his arm hurt. 'Some aspirin would be nice.' He joked to himself. He took one last look at the bar, And set out onto a broken city. The moon stared down ominously at him from above. He shut the door behind him, And set off. 


	3. Unlikely Allies

~Chapter 3.~ Corpses filled the street. Thousands of corpses. The street was filled with a swarm of fly's buzzing around the dead. buildings where burning all around him. He took in all the corpses. To the east of him there were hundreds of dead. Most from what appeared to be gun shots. To the west of him. There were corpses, but they looked different from those to his east. They seemed smaller. They were all black. Less fly's swarmed around them then the gunshot wounds. What could have done this to them? He asked himself. Then it all hit him. The flaming buildings, The charred corpses, The sudden rush of the crowd back towards the soviet soldiers and there machine guns. They where running from soviet flame throwers. The sudden realization of it all caused him to kneel over and vomit the last of the food in his system.  
  
He pulled himself up and looked around him once more. He had no idea where he was. He had been pulled along with the crowd for a so long. He set off towards the east looking for food, shelter, and any American forces he could find. The crackle of small arms fire could be heard in the distance. A occasional explosion flared up in the distance. The crackling of flames was the only sound beside his own footsteps. He glanced at the store's as we went along. Everyone of them had been looted to the bare shelves. 'I love my city.' He joked to himself. He had to do something to keep his mind off the pain. His arm was hurting, Badly. Each step increased the pain. He stopped trying to support it with his right arm and just let it hang by his side. He was still stepping over bodies of fallen civilians. Mostly those who had been swept along with him. He had only gone a block or two.  
  
He turned done a right corner. Hoping to find a street sigh he recognized. He found something worse than a bad street sighn, a group of around 10 Soviet were sitting behind a row of sandbags playing a game of poker. Steven froze in his tracks his mind not knowing what to do.  
  
There was a loud screech from down the street. The soviet soldiers dove behind the sandbags raising there assault rifles and firing at something down the street. 3 black Catalac cars raced by the Soviet soldiers. Opening fire from there rear windows with automatic weapons. The Soviet soldiers were cut to pieces. Only two of the soldiers dove for the safety of the sandbags. The cars were continuing down the street. One of the soldiers rose from the sandbags with some kind of bazooka. A triangle shaped rocket shot forth from it, knocking the Soviet soldiers cap off in the process.  
  
Steven couldn't see from his perspective but it sounded like he hit something. The screech of tires and the sound of steel smashing into steal suggested the solider had hit one of the black cars.  
  
The Soviet soldier dropped the bazooka like gun and grabbed his assault rifle from the ground. He begin running off towards the direction of the cars, he stopped after a few feet and called for his comrade. They shouted something in Russian and both of them set of towards the cars.  
  
Steven knew what they were going to do. Finish off those left in the cars. He had to stop them from doing it. He turned the corner and slowly began walking towards them. The cars seemed to have just impacted each other. There was a fire burning in front of the first car. It looked like it had stopped before the other two cars could avoid them. The last car tried to swerve away but ended up broad siding the second car. There were four people in the third car. All of them seemed to be knocked out cold.  
  
The soviets were now at the rear windows of the the third car. Steven was 10 yards behind them. Still silent. If they knew he was there they didn't seem to care. The one who fired the Bazooka raised his rifle towards the two in the backseat. Exposing there backs to Steven  
  
Steven reached down and pulled the gun from his belt. His hand shaking terribly as he aimed it towards the one holding the rifle  
  
The soviet said something that ended, "Russia." And clicked the safety on his rifle smiling.  
  
Steven clicked the safety on his gun. The soviets turned and looked at each at each other for a moment.  
  
Steven pulled the trigger. His hand shot back from the recoil. The Soviet holding the weapon fell back pulling the trigger as he did so bullets shot out from his weapon and impacted his comrade in the torso. They both fell to the ground.  
  
Steven stood there for a moment the smoking gun in his hand. 'You just killed someone.' His brain shouted out at him. It felt wrong. Against everything he had been taught. Killing is a sin! his parents would tell him when he was young. It felt wrong.  
  
He heard movement in the front seat of the car. He had forgotten about the people in the car! He dashed forwards making sure to keep his eyes off the two Soviet soldiers. A elderly man seemed to be driving the car "Sir. Sir are you all right? "Steven asked bending down to look into the car. The elderly mans head turned and he looked at Steven. He raised a hand and rested it on Stevens cheek "You Italian?" The man asked with a heavy Italian accent "No." "You are now." The man said smiling. 


End file.
